


To Become a Fragment

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst and Feels, But also, Canon Compliant, Crying, Dementia, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Javert Lives, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Canon, both me and the characters tbh, muslim valjean, transgender marius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert didn’t know what to do. Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? He was a retired Police Inspector, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t recognise the signs of dementia in the man he’d spent the better part of his entire life with? Had he not been watching close enough? Had he not cared enough to see? Had he grown so used to Valjean’s incessant shadowiness about his past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Become a Fragment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graeliwil](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=graeliwil).



> The idea came after watching Louis Theroux's "Extreme Love, Dementia" and they played Bring Him Home, which got me thinking. 
> 
> While I'm no stranger to family with memory loss, I am in no way an expert in Dementia, and so if anyone finds anything about this fic insensitive, inaccurate or simply wrong, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Valjean kissed Javert’s crown as he passed, glancing at the crossword Javert had been decimating in his armchair. “Going out,” he said, briefly. “Anything you need?”

“Eggs, if you want them for breakfast.”

“Didn’t I buy some yesterday?” Valjean patted his pocket, checking for his wallet and keys. “Did Cosette bake?” No keys. He glanced at the dining table, then the sideboard.

“If last week counts as yesterday,” Javert said, scribbling letters into boxes with easy satisfaction.

“Hm.” Valjean bit at the inside of his lip, not really listening. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Damn it Jean, this is what the bowl is for.” There was no real bite in Javert’s retort, though this particular gripe was becoming too repetitive for even his infamous patience. “You come in, put the keys in the bowl. Do I have to remind you every time?” 

Valjean hummed again, going to pull on his shoes in the hallway. “Oh, found them.” 

In the next room, Javert rolled his eyes. He didn’t see Valjean fish the keys out of the bowl, or the deep, calming breath Valjean had to take before leaving the house.

-

Valjean kissed Javert’s crown as he passed, glancing at the crossword Javert had been decimating in his armchair. “Going out,” he said, briefly. “Anything you need?”

“Not since this morning, no.”

“Did you go out this morning?” Valjean patted his pocket, checking for his wallet and keys. “I didn’t realise.” No keys. He glanced at the dining table, then the sideboard.

“No, you did,” Javert said, scribbling letters into boxes without an inflection in his tone.

“Hm.” Valjean bit at the inside of his lip, not really listening. “Have you seen my keys?”

“Keybowl, Jean.”

Valjean hummed again, going to pull on his shoes in the hallway. “Oh, found them.” 

In the next room, Javert rolled his eyes. He didn’t see Valjean fish the keys out of the bowl, or the deep, calming breath Valjean had to take before leaving the house.

\- 

Valjean kissed Javert’s crown as he passed, glancing at the crossword Javert had been decimating in his armchair. “Going out,” he said, briefly. “Anything you need?”

Javert turned around. Valjean was surprised to notice worry on Javert’s face. “Where are you going?”

Valjean patted his pocket, checking for his wallet and keys. “Oh, just the shops.”  No keys. He glanced at the dining table, then the sideboard.

“Jean,” Javert said, “Did you forget something? At the shops?”

Valjean tilted his head, confused by the question. “Just thought I’d buy some eggs. Have you seen my keys?”

-

Javert didn’t know what to do. Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? He was a retired Police Inspector, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t recognise the signs of dementia in the man he’d spent the better part of his entire life with? Had he not been watching close enough? Had he not  _ cared  _ enough to see? Had he grown so used to Valjean’s incessant shadowiness about his past? 

Javert knew, when he was honest with himself, that he had seen. But with a life spent mostly assuming the worst of Valjean, he had been endeavouring to respect Valjean’s privacy, and willing not to push Valjean to reveal any secrets he may want to keep. Valjean had been so thankful at the effort. Javert hadn’t even considered that Valjean could abuse Javert’s willingness to overlook private thoughts by concealing a goddamned degenerative disease.

He was so  _ angry _ . Anger at Valjean from hiding it. At himself for being angry at Valjean. At God, at the world, at the disease itself. It had been so long since his primary emotion was anger. 

Defeat came hand in hand with anger. No matter what they did, this was a defeat. There was no win, just an overwhelming loss. The world would lose one of its purest souls to a disease that would be literal torture. Cosette would lose a father, her children a grandfather, Javert. everything.

Once he had been angry, Javert checked himself. 

Valjean had not abused Javert by not telling him. Javert recognised that out of all of them, this would be hardest on the man himself. Who knew how long Valjean had carried this cross, keeping the panic and the fear to hopes of paranoia, bearing the offhand jabs at his fading memory as the jokes they had intended to be.

Valjean had been protecting himself by cocooning himself in the hope that to ignore was to cure. He had been protecting Javert by allowing Javert months, or perhaps years of life uninterrupted by concerns.

Equally, this was not a defeat. Dementia was not a fight, a street brawl like countless other diseases where one could win with a police baton or a fist, but perhaps more akin to paperwork. Endless, agonising, restlessly confining and without much reward. No adrenaline. No win, but no defeat. 

Javert had faced enough paperwork in his career to know attitude was everything. It wasn’t quite optimism; you knew it wouldn’t end, but there was satisfaction in doing a repetitive task until a work day was over, especially since it usually meant small things didn’t go unappreciated. A coffee break never felt so welcome as one that broke up a monotonous day. 

Eventually, being recognised by Valjean became like a coffee break in a mound of paperwork. Relief, tinged only by the knowledge that the break would be over too soon.

-

“How long has it been since we went for a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg, papa?” Cosette asked, excitedly spooning sugar into a teacup she had bought for Valjean and Javert as part of their moving-in present nearly a decade ago. It was delicate, covered in a pastel floral pattern by her friend, Feuilly, and only came out when she came around.

“Oh, a fair while, I’d say,” Valjean said, a genial smile on his face. 

“How many years, Jean?” Javert prompted, when the usual look of disappointment flashed through Cosette’s eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, what has it been, Cosette?”

“She was asking you, Jean.”

Cosette looked like she wanted to object, to apologise for phrasing her question so, but Javert recognised desire in the same look. The want to know whether it  _ was  _ just on the tip of Valjean’s tongue, as it always looked, or whether that was just a habit, part of his ingrained social answers. 

Valjean had told them he had been keeping this to himself for years, nearly as long as he and Javert had been living together, and had grown used to giving answers that meant very little, but were socially acceptable. 

Only once pointed out did Javert and Cosette realise the simplicity behind Valjean’s state of mind. When asked how old he was, Valjean would reply with something akin to: “Now how old  _ am  _ I,” which had usually been answered by the crowd surrounding him, Javert and Cosette the key doters responsible. More troubling was the idea that he didn’t even seem to know that he  _ hadn’t _ answered the question. The disease tricked his mind into thinking he had been truthful.

“I… Oh, I think, maybe…” Valjean scrunched his eyebrows, thinking. “Oh, it’s been a long time.”

“How many years, Jean.”

“Gosh, I’m not too sure. Do you know?” he asked Cosette.

“Papa,” Cosette said, evidently attempting not to sound too upset. 

With both Javert and Cosette staring, Valjean tensed. “I don’t know.” He was evidently trying, upsetting himself with the circular nature of the thought. When did they last go? It was a simple answer. When did they go?  _ When did they go? _ Perhaps, Javert realised, Valjean did not even remember the question he had been asked. Javert was probing him, interrogating him, but why? Why was Cosette upset? What did he have to say to make them stop looking at him like that? They would not let him get away with his misdirections, but he did not have answers to give.

“Well if we don’t go soon,” Javert said, eyes dropping to his untouched cup and saucer, “We’ll be late.”

“Where are you going?” Valjean asked, the distress from not three seconds ago completely dissolved with the memory of the conversation.

“To the gardens, Papa.” Cosette was, Javert knew, far stronger than Javert could ever be. It was all he could do not to smash the teacup sat in front of him. “To the Jardin du Luxembourg to see Marius.”

“May I join you? It has been a while since we walked there. I used to take you as a girl, do you remember?”

Cosette was beaming. “With my ugly black dress! I loved it, papa, I cherish the memory very dearly.”

Valjean ducked his head, pleased. “Me too.”

Javert felt a knot in his throat. He drank his tea in the hope that it would wash the tightness away.

-

Valjean gripped Javert’s hand, the strength crushing Javert’s fingers together strong enough to nearly make him cry out. “Jean? Are you okay?” Javert squeezed back, mostly to reassure the man, but also in what seemed to be a vain attempt to get him to ease up a little.

“It’s that boy again.” Valjean was not being subtle about which ‘boy’ he found so offensive; he did not surreptitiously glance in a direction but openly stared.

“Which boy?” Javert asked, seeing no boy in the direction Valjean was visually attacking.

“He used to stand in the trees, watching. I remember his face. Like a rat, watching.”

Javert scanned the park for the alarmingly described anthropomorphic rat-man that had been stalking Valjean. 

“Cosette,” Valjean called, beckoning his daughter closer. His grip on Javert strengthened again as Cosette returned, Marius on her heel.

“Jean, please, you’re hurting me—” Once Valjean’s grip had softened, Javert followed Valjean’s steely glare from his eyes to his victim. The victim quivered in place, tactically hidden behind Cosette. 

“You!” Valjean accused, sending a shock of visible terror through Marius. Javert laughed at the sight. He didn’t hate Marius as such, but it reminded Javert of the days pre-Cosette’s marriage, where Valjean had steadfastly denied Marius’ existence in an attempt to wish him out of reality. Those were sweet days for Javert, who gained from Valjean’s hate of Marius by being a perfect distraction. Javert had been incredibly hesitant in starting a relationship with Valjean due to lack of experience in making anyone  _ happy _ , but had been able to use Marius as a marker of what not to do, which had been very helpful.

“Yes, father?” came Marius’ miserable reply. 

Memories of cloud-like wedding dresses and sweet champagne kisses were buried with Valjean’s crestfallen realisation. “‘Father,’” Valjean repeated in a mutter.

Javert kept his hand tightly interlaced with Valjean’s, his thumb stroking stroking a soothing motion. “Jean thinks you look like a rat, Marius. Perhaps it is good you are considering adoption, who knows what Jean would think of your genetic child.”

Cosette and Javert laughed as Valjean blushed, trying to change the subject to how nice the weather was. The picnic was nice. Valjean did not forget Marius again that day.

-

“I like this man,” Javert said as the character on the television swept rubbish from a police officer’s desk into a bin, calling for a clean-up of the team. “He respects the law.” When there was no reply, Javert glanced at Valjean, in the early stages of sleep, his head nodding.

Javert smiled, still finding the scene disarmingly domestic. He stood and gently rocked Valjean’s shoulder. “Jean, come, if you’re tired, let’s go to bed.” When the man did not immediately wake, Javert used it as an excuse to bend closer and press a kiss to Valjean’s temple. “Come on old man, you’ll get cramps if you sleep in the chair all night.” 

Valjean blinked slowly as he woke. He frowned tightly before looking up— and let out a shocked “Inspector!” 

The word was breathed with a sharp intake of air, marked with horror. Javert was locked to the spot. 

Valjean was scrambling back in his armchair, putting as much distance as he could between them, heels of his palms digging into the arms of the seat with enough force to make the skin pale. “What— what are you doing here— you— you aren’t—” Valjean’s eyes were wild, skidding about the room in search of exits but never leaving Javert long enough to let the inspector take advantage of him. 

Distress, deaging, confusion, Javert had been warned, he knew it was inevitable with their past, he had been mentally preparing himself for  _ months _ ; he had to play along, he had to make sure Valjean did not hurt himself simply because he was confused, he had to help make the landing back to reality easier for Valjean, to help in any way, but— 

“Jean…” Javert steeled himself, felt nauseous even thinking the damning words in his mind. “Jean Valjean… you…”  _ You’re under arrest _ , he said, again and again, searching for any remnants of a past self to make it easier.

A finger pressed Javert’s nose. 

Valjean let out a soft ‘boop’. “You look so serious, Javert. Perhaps we should go to bed if you’re tired.” Valjean was smiling, as beautiful and as kind as he always had been. 

“Yeah,” Javert said, feeling weak. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” He stood and waited for Valjean to mirror him before pulling Valjean into a hug, clutching him close, gripping the material at the back of Valjean’s shirt. A desperate attempt to hold onto anything of Valjean that he could.

Valjean melted into the hug like he always did, which Javert realised, now, with tears threatening to overwhelm him, he might not be able to take for granted for much longer. Javert felt so whole when he was being hugged by Valjean, kept together by his warmth. 

One day, Valjean might push Javert away, thinking he was the fearsome inspector come to attack him. Javert gripped tighter. 

“People will think you like me if you hug too long, Javert.”

Once upon a time, Javert might have replied with a similarly sarcastic retort. “I do like you, Jean. I love you.” He felt Valjean smile against his neck.

“Well I love you, too.”

-

“Now where did that Javert go?” Valjean looked over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the policeman. 

“He’s out today, papa, it’s just you and me.” 

“Ohhh, yes,” Valjean smiled to himself, nodding as he recalled the situation. Then, aware of himself, he tried to anchor himself back in the present. Javert was out, he was with Cosette. Cosette— who was crying. “Oh no,” Valjean said, helpless and knowing whatever had occurred had been his fault, “What did I do?”

Cosette laughed, self-deprecating as she wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “You told me a story, papa.”

“Oh,” Valjean was relieved that that probably didn’t mean he’d offended her. “What was the story about?”

Cosette folded the handkerchief neatly, resting it on her knee and not quite ready to give it back. “It was about your past, papa,” she tested, watching him but trying not to scare him with any kind of intensity. “You told me about who you are.”

Valjean paled. No, he couldn’t have— to have kept the secret to himself all his life, only to have it forced from his lips? No, it wasn’t fair— the secret was not something that could be offered as a whim to the disease, not some trivial information to be said and forgotten— he, in turn, watched Cosette, studying her hatred, seeing her disgust— 

“I want you to know that I will never think of you any differently, papa. I love you for you.”

The veritable relief that flooded through Valjean was as intensely sincere the second time Cosette was graced it. The sheer emotion of the conversation must  have drained Valjean for he sat back in his chair, looking for all the world like he could become one with the seat from relief alone.

“Now where did that Javert go?” Valjean looked over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the policeman. When Cosette explained he was out, Valjean nodded to himself and turned back to her. 

Valjean’s eyes softened further. “You look so well today, Fantine.” Less than half an hour ago, Cosette had not known her mother’s name.

-

“Javert, I have to tell her, before I let it slip, but she shall hate me either way…” 

Javert could not bring himself to explain that Cosette already knew, had been told by him nearly a year ago. Instead, he nodded, his features neutral. “Valjean, you must tell Cosette your past on your own terms. Whether that means taking the chance at you not letting out information and keeping her in the dark, or talking to her while you can still remember doing so…” 

Javert rolled onto his side so his chest pressed Valjean’s shoulder. He worried, now, about sharing a bed with a man who had, once, woken up and attempted to choke him, before realising who Javert was. Javert tucked a lock of Valjean’s hair behind his ear, then stroked his bearded jaw.

Unable to resist, Javert pressed a kiss to Valjean’s lips. “No matter what you choose, she and I both love you. Marius, too.”

Valjean shut his eyes, obviously unwilling to argue (at least, out loud). He too rolled onto his side so they were face to face and brought his arm around Javert’s waist. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

-

“Jean, do you know where you are?” The doctor smiled, patient.

“Where we are right now?” Valjean replied, as if the answer were obvious.

“Yes, where we are right now.”

“Well,” Valjean said, repaying smile with smile. “We’re here.” 

“And where’s that?” At Valjean’s blank look, the doctor continued. “What kind of building is this?” 

“Oh, we’re…” Valjean’s smile didn’t falter. “We’re in the building that we come to when we come to see you.” 

The doctor nodded, scribbling on his notes. “That’s a good enough answer for me. Okay, I’m going to have to borrow your husband and daughter for a moment, okay? Just sit right here and we’ll be right back.” Valjean nodded while the three entered the waiting room next door.

The doctor invited the two to sit down. All were silent for long, heavy moments. “What age would you say he regresses to when he forgets?”

“About thirty,” Javert said, hands gripping his knees. “Just after his release from jail.”

“Sometimes if he’s with me, he thinks I’m either my mum, or the age I was when he first adopted me,” Cosette added. 

“I would say,” the doctor started, in the way Javert knew could only mean bad news, “We’re looking at about two years until it’s permanent that he won’t remember who you are.” 

Javert felt empty. So little time. What if Valjean’s instinctual response, in two years, was to fear Javert? He would not even get to see the physical Valjean, let alone the mental one. 

Cosette placed her hand on Javert’s, the tips of her long fingernails making grooves in his skin. “Do we… do you think we should tell him?” Cosette redirected her question from Javert to the doctor.

“Well, you could try, but…”

“There’s no guarantee that he would remember,” Cosette finished. “But it wouldn’t distress him too much?”

“That’s really up to him.” The doctor replaced his pen in his pocket. “It’s going to be hard on him, and I don’t think anybody copes well with the news, but with a timeframe, at least you can plan ahead.” 

Cosette nodded. “Javert?”

Javert nodded. 

“Any further questions?” the doctor asked, starting to stand.

They both shook their heads. 

-

“I like that doctor,” Valjean said in the car home, “I remember him. ...Joly.”

“That’s right,” Cosette said, rubbing Valjean’s arm. “Doctor Joly.”

“He went to school with you,” Valjean said, “Nice boy. Did he like the donations?” 

“Donations, papa?”

“For the hospital. Next time, we could try to organise a bake sale. Get some kids involved. The toys are nice, but this way, you could bake for them…” 

Cosette met Javert’s eye in the rearview mirror.  _ They  _ still had a long time to go before they could process Joly’s news. In some ways, it was almost a blessing that Valjean had forgotten. He’d become so quiet, withdrawing into himself and refusing to speak as he did when highly distressed.

“I think a bake sale is a good idea, Jean.” Javert kept his eyes on the road, not looking back at Cosette or Valjean. “Next time we go to the hospital, we can bring it up.”

-

Cosette was only barely through the door when she heard the phone ring. Arms loaded with groceries, by the time she had set them down and made it to the table, it was too late. Before she could even pick it up to redial, it was ringing again.

“Hello?”

“ _ Cosette. _ ” Javert’s voice was on the verge of panic; the start of the smile Cosette always got when she got calls from her parents fell. “Please tell me Jean is with you.”

Cosette felt her knees weaken. “No, he isn’t.”

There was a half sob from the other side of the line. A decade ago, Cosette would not have been able to say Javert even had the capacity to cry. A year ago, she had been surprised to realise they could understand one another without needing words. It felt almost cheap, to be finally seeing Javert as a father after bonding over Valjean’s decline. Like she was replacing him with Javert. 

“When did you last see him?” Cosette fished her mobile out of her handbag as she spoke. Her gut fell further when she saw the twelve missed calls from Javert. 

“I just went out to get a newspaper,” Javert was saying, his voice high and pitched with  self-loathing. “And when I came back he was  _ gone _ . He left his keys, his wallet, his  _ phone _ , and I can’t see him down the street but I don’t want to leave the house incase he comes back and—” 

“I’m on my way, Javert, I’ll go to some of his favourite places, okay, and I’ll call you as soon as it’s safe to. Try not to worry, okay? I’m sure he’s just at the mosque, or in the park.” Cosette felt calmer to hear Javert’s reluctant laugh, able to picture the man tearing up. “He’ll be safe, Javert, and I’ll be around soon.”

“Yeah— yeah. ...Drive safe,” Javert said, the hysteric edge to his voice replaced by a sort of hopelessness that was almost as bad. “Love you.”

“Love you too, and let me know if he comes home.”

-

Finding Valjean was not nearly as hard as getting him to come home.

As Cosette had predicted, she found Valjean on the street outside his mosque, looking for all the world like a lost, six foot seven child. As she pulled up, she called Javert to let him know, keeping the phonecall brief so she could grab Valjean before he wandered away again.

“Papa!” she called as she jogged up the street from the space, “You had us worried.”

Cosette’s step faltered at the look given to her. Complete non-recognition. Valjean turned behind him to check whether Cosette was talking to another man, her real father. Finding no-one, he frowned at her. 

“You have the wrong man, child.” Valjean’s voice was rough, his accent unrecognisable as the one Cosette had known her entire life. Where before Valjean had spoken with a quasi-middle-class tone, this accent belonged to the countryside, words formed so as to seem almost unrecognisable.

For a horrible beat, Cosette wondered if she was, actually, speaking to the wrong man. 

“Papa,” she said slowly, “Do you know where you are?” 

“Is this some con?” Valjean said, more on edge than Cosette had ever seen. “Leave me, girl.”

Cosette knew she had to misdirect Valjean but she had no idea which Valjean she was addressing, which direction to take him. The accent was a start, she supposed, and his apparent brutality; perhaps this was her father aged thirty, just released from prison? Or maybe earlier; a snapshot of a man who had attempted to escape.

Javert arrived quick enough that he must have disobeyed several road laws, something more than unlikely in the man. Relieved, to hear the familiar sound of Javert’s car pull up behind her own car, Cosette returned to placating her father. “Let’s get you home papa, I’m sure you’d like a nice cup of tea—” 

Cosette watched as, in a lightning flash, the confusion in Valjean’s eyes transformed into wild and undeniable  _ hatred _ . “Javert,” she heard Valjean utter in a forceful breath. “Found so soon…” Valjean spared one last look at Cosette, seeming to categorise her as a friend of Javert’s, and growled, before breaking into a sprint in the opposite direction.

Valjean was pushing eighty but still looked (and ran,) like a man half his age. Cosette, in shock, did not react until she saw Javert bolt past her too; closer to forty than Valjean and equally as healthy, though not, Cosette presumed, as fuelled by adrenaline as the man currently thinking himself a parole violator being chased by the most fearsome police inspector on the force. 

Cosette returned to her car, knowing herself unable to keep up with the two men but hoping to cut them off like she’d seen in those cops on camera shows Javert loved to hate to watch. 

The roads were thankfully quiet. 

She was glad she had not had to witness how Javert had managed to force Valjean to the ground. Javert was pinning Valjean to the concrete, Valjean’s face down. Javert was pinning Valjean’s arms behind his back with his knees, evidently struggling to keep Valjean’s strong arms from punching him off without handcuffs. She wondered whether Javert would have cuffed Valjean if he had them, and when the thought did not seem as horrific as it had once had been.

“Jean,” Javert tried, softly, once, but Valjean’s struggles only continued. Javert, hardening himself, forced Valjean into stillness with the careful application of more of his weight on Valjean’s arms. “Jean Valjean, I’m arresting you on suspicion of violating your parole, multiple counts of attempted escape…”

-

“You’re hurt,” Valjean said, carefully turning Javert’s head by his jaw to see the yellowing purple bruise on Javert’s cheek. “How’d you do it?”

“I fell,” Javert said, purposefully not avoiding meeting Valjean’s eye. “It’s fine, it looks worse than it feels.”

“It looks like someone punched you,” Valjean said, suspicious.

“Ha! If only. It would sound much more impressive than catching myself on the sink because the bathroom floor was wet.” 

Valjean hummed, low and displeased with the answer. He kissed the bruise anyway, a light peck like Cosette had taught him as a child: the kiss would draw out the pain and leave love in its wake. A kiss to Javert’s lips usually had the same effect on the heart.

“You look tired,” Valjean added, swiping at the bags under Javert’s eyes. “Are you having bad dreams again?”

“What is this, ’complain about Javert’s looks’ day? I’m  _ fine _ , Jean.”

Valjean made another dissatisfied hum but instead of continuing the interrogation, simply turned off their bedsight light and swung an arm around Javert’s chest. 

The bed was warm and Valjean’s weight was comforting beside him. Javert fought against the urge to sleep. It had been two days since Valjean had simply walked out of the house, and since they had had to stage an arrest to get him back home, and Javert did not want to run the risk again.

He had double locked every door and window that could be used as an exit, but did not doubt Valjean’s ability to get in and out of locked houses. Until he could install trip alarms or motion-sensing cameras, Javert could not let himself sleep; he would have to be vigilant at all hours to prevent another escape.

He didn’t sound sane anymore. His inner-monologue was convincing him that short of setting up literal beartraps in their garden, the next best option was to not sleep at all, to have one eye on Valjean every hour of every day.

Joly’s voice replayed in his mind from a session earlier that week. “You are not poor. You can afford the kind of care most people cannot. 24 hour care, privacy, trained doctors around the clock…” A care home. 

Sending Valjean to a care home seemed almost blasphemous. Javert could care for Valjean. He had done a good enough job so far, bar the one escape, and once he had set up preventative measures… He had learnt from his mistakes. He would just have to… keep Valjean under lock and key in his own home, hoping he did not regress to his Toulon days too often. Hope that he would not one day kill Javert by accident.

Valjean’s hand trailed the skin of Javert’s arm. “What are you thinking about?” 

Javert breathed out, soft and long. “...Care homes.”

“For me?”

“Uhuh.” Javert felt like a coward, relying on the knowledge that it was more than likely that Valjean would not remember this conversation in the morning. “What do you think of them?”

“I like this house,” Valjean said, ruminative but so far not sounding like he was accusing Javert of not caring about him anymore, “But if I’m causing you trouble…” 

“Jean…” Javert didn’t know what to say. Valjean  _ was _ causing him trouble, and Javert was not in the position to just say he could take care of it. He was not young, nor could he guarantee that he would remain healthy and able to help Valjean physically for much longer… It would be safer to move them now, while they were relatively able to do so, instead of waiting until Javert died and left everything to Cosette or, worst case scenario, he too ended up with the same disease. 

“What does Cosette think?” Valjean asked into the darkness.

“...she said the decision was up to us.”

“But?” Valjean probed, hearing the unsaid phrase in Javert’s tone.

“But,” Javert continued, “If, God forbid, anything were to happen to me…” 

“She would have to put me in one anyway.” Valjean simply breathed for a couple of seconds, allowing Javert to do the same. He wanted to be able to respect Valjean’s wishes, but sometimes they really weren’t in Valjean’s best interest. 

“Not if she didn’t feel she had to, but you’re strong, and she’s to adopt soon…”

“Let’s do it.” Valjean’s hand stilled on Javert’s elbow, his thumb continuing to rub circles instead. “It’s time. Has Doctor Joly given you a list of places he recommends?” 

Javert had not felt so relieved for a long time. He had had to make a lot of decisions in the last year than had not always sat well with him, and to finally be allowed the ability not to have a final say in things made him feel just that little bit easier. “No, but I can ask him tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Is this why you haven’t been sleeping? Thinking about whether to ask me?”

“Partly,” Javert admitted. “But I worry you’ll disappear one day.” 

“Disappear?”

“One day you’re here, the next you’re not. One day you’re Jean Valjean, my husband, the next you’re Jean Valjean, recent escapee of Toulon. One day you let me kiss you, the next I’m pinning you to the pavement because you don’t know who I am, one day you’re lying next to me in our house, the next—” Javert had worked himself to tears, and the next words were hard to get out. “The next you’re in a care home, and you don’t know who I am, or who you are, or where you are, or, or… or anything. You’re just. Gone.”

“Right now, right this second, I am Jean Valjean, your husband and Cosette’s father. No matter what happens to me, or my mind, or what I say, and how much I hurt you… I am Jean Valjean, and I love you.”

Javert wiped a hand over his face, feeling the tears stream, mixing with snot to create a mess of the pillows. Right now, right this second, he had Valjean. 

-

“Are we going somewhere?” Valjean asked, suitcase in hand, hat on head. 

“Not now, Jean, please,” Javert said, mostly to himself. He was stressed, he was worried, and he did not need Valjean inadvertently causing more trouble for them.

Today was the day they would move into the carehome, after a month’s deliberation and another few of finding the right place. In an ideal world, Javert thought ruefully, he and Valjean could have moved in when Valjean was aware what was happening. He had hoped three months of searching for a care home might have solidified the idea in Valjean’s mind, but, apparently, that was wishful thinking.

He packed Valjean into the car with their luggage and they set off on the couple-of-hour trip from their house to the home. Javert had decided they would not sell their house for now, just in case the carehome didn’t work out as they’d hoped, and so that they could have somewhere to come back to if they needed space. If Javert needed space. Thankfully, the carehome allowed partners to stay in the resident’s apartments, but it would not hurt, Javert thought, to have somewhere safe to come back to to be alone.

Javert had not been away from Valjean’s side in a good half-year now, and while he loved the man, he greatly looked forwards to going to the toilet without having to worry that Valjean would find himself back in Toulon. 

They picked up Cosette on the way, the girl sitting in the front and exchanging gossip with Javert while Valjean hummed a song from the radio to himself. 

About twenty minutes from the home, Valjean stopped humming.

Ten minutes, and Javert looked into his rearview mirror to find Valjean’s eyes blown, his face ashen. “Jean?” Javert did not turn in his seat, loathe to cause an accident, but kept his eyes split between the road and Valjean’s reflection. “Are you okay?”

“You can’t make me go,” Valjean said, folding into himself. “You can’t.”

“Go where, Jean?”

“ _ Toulon _ .” Valjean was clutching one wrist with his other hand, both pressed against his chest as if to avoid being cuffed. “I can’t go back there.”

“We’re not going to Toulon, Papa,” Cosette tried. “We’re going to the care home, remember?”

“I can’t go back,” Valjean was saying, just under his breath, again and again. “I can’t, I can’t…” 

Javert sucked in a breath, preparing himself to act the role of the police inspector Valjean had come to expect in situations such as this. He furrowed his brow, told himself to seem impassive. 

“Javert, please,” Valjean begged. “I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done....” 

Javert cycled through a list of options. He decided on opting to deny the fact that criminals could be  _ sorry _ . “Sorry?” Javert scoffed, “You can’t be—”

“Please, Cosette, Javert, I’m so sorry, I promise I won’t be a burden, I swear, I’ll try my best, please don’t send me there…” 

Javert glanced at Cosette, who was turned in her seat to face Valjean. “Papa?” she asked. 

It occurred to Javert that to be incarcerated was not just a past fear for Valjean but a legitimate cause for worry in the present, too. This Valjean was one of only a few months ago, but one who feared that his telling Cosette of his past would end in his seeing himself thrown back into prison. 

Cosette, slowly gathering the courage to navigate Valjean and Javert’s past enough to misdirect her papa, spoke like she wasn’t being accused of locking her father in his literal nightmare. “So you knew Imam Myriel?” 

A serenity fell over Valjean like he’d been placed in blankets. “Oh, sure. He gave me those candlesticks… He was a nice man.” 

As they pulled into the carehome, Valjean told Cosette and Javert about his re-introduction into being a Muslim man. 

They had discovered the candlestick trick almost by accident; Marius bringing up the silverware while panickingly rambling during one of Valjean’s regressions. It had seemed almost like a miracle, to simply draw Valjean’s attention to the gifts and to have him return to the present, anchored.

It grated on Javert, especially, that Valjean could remember a pair of goddamn inanimate objects, but occasionally mistook his husband for a heartless monster. But, eventually, he grew to realise what exactly the candlesticks represented for Valjean. 

Safetly. The tangible ability to place himself in a world that was not Toulon. The candlesticks were a simple and easy proof that Valjean was Valjean, which was exactly what Javert and Cosette needed to misdirect Valjean. More often than not, the candlesticks did not anchor Valjean to the present, but to a calmer Valjean from the past, to the Mayor Madeleine, caught in a quiet prayer before the silver. 

Valjean did not talk once they entered the home, but he no longer seemed to think he was being reincarcerated, allowing Javert to lead him by the hand to their room. The first night in their new bed was strange and almost hotel-like. It would take a lot of getting used to, Javert decided. He only hoped Valjean felt secure in the building but not enclosed. 

-

“You have a guest,” Javert smiled as he entered their room, Cosette and Marius behind him. 

“Cosette,” Valjean said, causing three hearts in the room to swell. It was becoming rare for Valjean to be able to place names to faces. 

“Good morning papa!” Only once Cosette had reached her father did he notice that Marius and Cosette were not alone. Between them was a baby-carrier. 

Valjean froze. “You were pregnant?” 

Cosette laughed, patting her father on the head. “No, papa, we adopted her. Jean Valjean,” she said, “Meet Myriel Fauchelevent-Pontmercy.” 

“Myriel?” Valjean asked, awestruck as he watched Cosette pull the child out of her carrier. 

“Grandfather is  _ not  _ happy,” Marius said, his own laugh self-deprecating. “He had a long list of names for us to choose from, and yet we chose a name that, he says, ‘does not exist, nor has any right existing’.” 

Valjean chuckled at the thought. 

“And to top it all off,” Marius said, encouraged by Valjean’s reaction, “To double-barrel her surname… and to disregard the Gillenormand brand entirely! It was too much for grandfather.”

“I’ll bet that did not stop him from asking to hold her, though.” Javert grinned as Marius laughingly confirmed his assumption. 

“I think,” Valjean said, “That was a not-so-subtle attempt to ask if someone could hold her.” His smile broadened as Javert let out an embarrassed  _ no _ that was definitely a yes, and was handed the baby. 

Javert did not flounder as much as Valjean hoped he might, though he was not surprised to learn that Javert had spent some of his youth as a PC caring for lost children, and that the knowledge had stuck.

“Okay,” Javert said eventually. “All change.” He shared a smile with Cosette, who took her daughter and placed the baby in Valjean’s arms, folded into position by Marius. Cosette kept her hand on Myriel, steadying the baby as Valjean held her. 

Valjean hoped he would remember this moment for as long as he could. 

Right now, right this second, he was Jean Valjean and he was holding his perfect granddaughter in his arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> The most canon part of this fic is the fact that Hugo actually wrote that 80 year old Valjean looked 40.


End file.
